


terms of service

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Mutual Pining, PWP, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6806410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lydia,” he starts carefully, voice steady, “what are you saying?”</p><p>“I’m saying that we’re two bored adults who have been friends since we were sixteen.” (Here, he frowns, and she knows it’s because it’s not that simple and never has been.) “And people who are friends should be able to entertain each other. Don’t you think?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees as Lydia stands right in front of him, looking up so that she can meet his eyes. “I’m just a little fuzzy as to… uh… how you’d like to be entertained? By me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	terms of service

Lydia's never had an easy time letting go of Stiles.

Even now, when they've both graduated from undergrad and have supposedly moved on to bigger, better parts of their lives, she feels like she always ends up in this same position— sitting next to him on the couch in her living room, wondering what would have happened if she had ever gotten herself together enough to get together with him. Even all these years later, he's still so pretty that it makes her chest ache, looking at him.

He's not quite as broken anymore, and knowing that he was able to fix himself makes him all the more attractive to her. He came back to them. He came back to her and Scott because he loves them. It makes it easier for Lydia to touch him, the way she hadn't been able to before she left for college. A steady stream of texting and the occasional phone call had made them closer than they had been before she'd gone. And, as much as it pains her to say it whenever he makes a particularly stupid joke, Lydia can now admit that Stiles Stilinski is her best friend.

Which doesn't, of course, mean that she doesn't want to fuck him. If she's supposed to not want him between her legs, then she's pretty sure she's the worst friend ever, because she craves him so fervently that sometimes she finds herself wondering if there's anything that she could do to curb it at this point. It feels _endless_. Sometimes Lydia thinks that she's stuck with it forever, and sometimes she thinks that she might be able to push him out of her system, if she could just find a way to have him once. Just one night.

Like tonight, when the power goes out in her apartment, leaving the two of them in the darkness together.

From the light of her phone, Lydia can see Stiles blinking in surprise.

"Is it seriously raining that hard?" he asks. He squints out the window at the rain that is falling to the ground in thick drops, the wind blowing the trees back and forth.

It would be so simple to nudge too close in the dark and pretend that she doesn't know where his hand is. He wouldn't tell her, Lydia thinks. He'd just try to pull it away without making things awkward.

"Looks like it," Lydia says, her voice casual. "I guess you're sleeping here tonight.

"Nah," he says, and she thinks, as she looks at him, that it would be too easy to tell him that he's hers. It would be too easy to get him to hear it. "It's not that bad."

She doesn't know why she's so afraid, but she does know that every time she lets him out the door, she can feel a piece of herself trailing after him, tied around his wrist.

"Oh, I'm not giving you a choice," Lydia says, getting up and starting to look around her apartment for candles. She's in a pair of leggings, and her hair is down around her shoulders, curled from work earlier today. Had the lights been on, Stiles would have an extraordinary view of her ass as she bent over. Unfortunately, that particular bit of torture is for another day. "It's dark and cold and you're _not_ leaving me alone here."

She'd be just fine on her own, but she'd rather have him.

"Okay," he says pliantly, because, of course, as soon as Lydia makes it about herself, he bends to her. He always does.

"You'll stay with me tonight?" Lydia asks, lighting the first candle. It illuminates her smile as she looks at him with large, innocent eyes, hoping he doesn't notice her wording.

"Unless the power comes back on. I don't wanna sleep on your couch unless I have to," he adds, teasing. "I mean, as comfy as it is, your decorative pillows take up way too much room."

Stiles stands up and walks over to her, grabbing the match that Lydia has offered him and lighting a few of the candles that she's been placing around the living room.

"Sleep in my bed," suggests Lydia. His eyes widen slightly before he forces himself to look normal. (And, yes, she notices. She notices because she's been looking since she was seventeen.)

"And you'll be on the floor?" he says sarcastically.

"I'll be in my bed with you," she says. She likes the sparkle in his eye that is created by the warm light of the candle. He looks devious, and confident, and it makes Lydia want to pull the rug out from under him. "And maybe we don't have to sleep at all."

Stiles' confusion almost comes up to the surface— from across the room, she can see him attempting to work out what this is before his face reveals anything. But his Adam's apple bobs once, twice, three times before he says, "There isn't really much to do but sleep. Power's out, Lydia."

"Right," she acquises, walking around the coffee table to get closer to him. "And what do people usually do when there's nothing else to do?"

He goes backwards two steps.

"Play parcheesi?"

"Wrong," Lydia says. "Strike one."

"Lydia," he starts carefully, voice steady, "what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we're two bored adults who have been friends since we were sixteen." (Here, he frowns, and she knows it's because it's not that simple and never has been.) "And people who are friends should be able to entertain each other. Don't you think?"

"Uh, yeah," Stiles agrees as Lydia stands right in front of him, looking up so that she can meet his eyes. "I'm just a little fuzzy as to… uh… how you'd like to be entertained? By me."

"I guess that depends," Lydia reasons, touching the hem of his shirt and running her fingers over it, lifting it slightly over his taut stomach.

"On…?"

"On what you're willing to do to me," she murmurs, feeling a good sort of mischief in the way her heart is thumping irrationally against her ribcage. It's been a long time since she attempted to seduce anybody, and the fact that this particular one might have consequences makes her scrape her teeth against her lower lip as she tries not to smile.

"Anything," he says instantly, no hesitation necessary. His eyes are clear and at ease, even considering how nervous he is. She imagines that there's always a part of Stiles that will be too comfortable with her, no matter how close she gets. "What do you want?"

She feels something triumphant going off like fireworks in her gut as his eyes meet hers almost defiantly, as if daring her to back down now that she's started this. And Lydia loves it. She loves the challenge in his eyes, the easy smile that's playing at his lips, and the way his hand comes to cover hers where she's still toying at his hem.

"No rules," says Lydia. "The power's out, there's nothing to do, and I want to be allowed to do what I want to do to you without worrying about it being awkward tomorrow."

"See, now you're adding rules."

"It's a rule that you aren't allowed to be awkward tomorrow?"

"Yup, you've already broken the only parameter you set."

Lydia considers this. Then she sits down on the floor in front of her coffee table and reaches for the pad of paper in the middle.

"Okay, Stilinski. What are your terms of service?"

"Hmm." He settles in on the opposite corner of the coffee table, his eyes still shining in the candlelight, everything warmer because of the soft glow. For a moment, his hand searches half-blind on the floor, and then he comes up with the bottle of prosecco that they had been passing back and forth. "Write yours down first."

"'No awkwardness,'" Lydia recites, scripting it carefully on the piece of paper. "Next?"

"I get to take my time." He's grinning slightly as he says it, and a part of her wavers at his words. "You're gonna let me take my time with you, Lydia Martin."

She takes a swig of prosecco that's too long before she says, hoarsely, "Okay."

"Okay," he replies, still smiling, but this time a little sheepish.

"Oh, we can't make fun of each other for any faces made or noises made."

Stiles looks aghast.

"Do you seriously have to even put that down? Isn't that just… polite?"

"You'd think," Lydia says wryly. "But we're also… we're friends. I don't know which sex rules apply and which don't."

"Snuggling," Stiles says, as if this is just dawning on him. "Where are we at with snuggling?"

"I hate it," Lydia says flatly. "No."

"Disagree. Deal's off."

She starts laughing.

"What?"

The bottle's out of her hand in a second as Stiles takes a sip, smiling around the lip.

"You're seriously going to let me _inside_ of you but you're not going to let me spoon you?"

"I don't like cuddling," Lydia complains. "It's not comfortable ever and I don't like having to pretend that it is just to fabricate romance. Give me another rule."

"Fine," he says, thinking for a moment before he says, "We're not gonna… I dunno… go into the past. Talk about our history. We're two friends who are… uhh…"

"Fucking," Lydia inserts for him. "Mhm. Got it. And, along with that, no talking about feelings."

He starts to turn red.

"Just _feelings_ , right? Not, like, talking in general"

Lydia glances up from where she's writing the words down.

"Yes. Why?"

Stiles glances at his hands, cheeks dramatically rouged.

"I get… mouthy."

She glances down at where his fingers are twisting together under the table, and suddenly becomes aware of her clit throbbing rhythmically. Lydia almost drops the pen right there and attacks him, but she forces herself to ignore the ache between her legs and look back at their list.

"Just feelings is fine with me," she says, working too hard to keep her voice light. "Any last specifications, Casanova?"

When he looks up from his fingers, his eyes are serious.

"You have to promise to still be my best friend tomorrow."

Her heart pounds in her chest, too unsteady considering the fact that she has known this boy since she was a kindergartener and, by all logic, should not be so unnerved by him. But there's been a part of her that has been settled by his presence ever since they were in high school, and Lydia thinks that might be the most _un_ settling thing about him. When she's around him, there are too many 'shouldn't' variables. She shouldn't be in love with him. She shouldn't feel so at ease in spite of that. She shouldn't want to run towards him and away from him at all times.

She definitely shouldn't be tugging the bottle out of his hands and setting it on the table, then sitting up on her knees and reaching forward to frame his face with her hands.

"You're an idiot," she says fondly. Stiles wraps his left hand around her right wrist, shaking his head at the insult. "If you think you're going to get out of this friendship by the simple act of nailing me, you have another thing coming."

He looks a little looser at that, and like he's suddenly regretting the coffee table between them as Lydia leans forward and places her lips on his, her two hands stroking his cheeks. It is soft and slow, and achingly familiar, and she realizes, a moment later, that they've done this before.

When she looks back and sees the look on his face, she realizes that he knows it too.

They've done this before, and it's been nearly a decade since this last happened, and she doesn't want another decade to go by before they do it again. She moves around the table and closer to him, _hating_ that she has to crawl to do it, but Stiles scoots up towards her, stopping her from having to be on her hands and knees anymore as he places his right hand under her chin and angles her head towards him. He leans up high on his knees, inevitably making Lydia stretch taller to reach him, winding her arms around his neck as he starts kissing her in earnest.

It's not the first time, Lydia thinks as he learns his way around her mouth, but maybe that's not the reason why it feels so familiar.

The first, small, appreciative " _mmm_ " at the back of Stiles' throat is what reminds Lydia that her job here, tonight, is to torture him. Naturally, she shoves him down with her hands on his shoulders and Stiles takes the hint, crossing his legs so that Lydia can climb into his lap, rubbing herself against the stiff fabric of his jeans as an afterthought as she continues their kiss.

She likes the way he kisses her. His hands are all over her back, spread wide, and getting closer to her ass by the minute. He's curious, but bold, and he seems content. She thinks that she could kiss him for hours and he'd be happy to continue kissing her. She thinks she could probably kiss him through an apocalypse and he'd be willing to snuff it that way.

"Neck," Lydia demands, pulling back breathlessly. She's shocked when he actually complies, finding his home on the smooth skin there without even making a comment. "Do you want to know what I've decided?" Lydia asks him, sounding like she's running a marathon.

"Mmmm," says Stiles lazily, lips blazing a fire down her flesh.

"You, Stiles Stilinski, are the kind of guy who doesn't just automatically _expect_ girls to give him blowjobs, and therefore, by that nature, make girls not _hate_ the idea of giving him head because they suspect he'd be tremendously, absurdly grateful for it."

Underneath her, she feels his dick twitch in interest.

"Are you offering to blow me?" he asks, seeming _amused_ for a reason that is beyond Lydia.

Maybe he doesn't realize that she's been perfecting her blowjob skills since she was fifteen and she could absolutely destroy him with them.

"Would you offer to blow _me_?" she asks sweetly.

If he wasn't fully hard before, he is now. Lydia is delighted.

"You're not just screwing with me," he says like it's just dawning on him. "You're gonna let me—?"

"I want to feel you inside of me, Stiles," she says softly, pushing a piece of hair away from his eyes. "I don't care how we get there, but I—" She rocks over him, letting her breath hitch at the feeling. "—I want you so deep, Stiles. I want to feel you everywhere."

If he's into talking, she reasons that the best way to turn him on is to do the same. And, if the fact that he's got her lain against the floor in ten seconds flat is any indication, she thinks it might have actually worked.

"Oh my god, Lydia," he groans, staring down at her, at the way her hair is spread out around her face. "I'm gonna fucking wreck you tonight."

She's starting to be wet to the point of obnoxiousness, really. Nobody should ever have to be this wet without having someone's fingers _very_ near her center, but here she is— poor, poor Lydia Martin, stretched out on the floor in front of a man who she has been in love with since she was seventeen, who is not touching her, but is, instead, staring down at her in awe and promising things that make her body clench around nothing.

She pulls her shirt off, throwing it across the room, letting him see the black bra that she's wearing.

"Leggings," she says, gesturing to where Stiles is blocking her from pulling her pants off by kneeling over her, his legs straddling hers.

"Nuh-uh," he argues, eyes fixed on her breasts. "You said I could take my time."

He lowers the cups of her bra, stroking her nipples leisurely with his thumb while he wets his bottom lip with his tongue.

"I… I changed my mind," she says hopefully, but he scrapes his nail lightly over her nipple in admonishment, making Lydia squeeze her eyes shut for a moment, breathing.

"I didn't," Stiles says flatly.

He surveys her breasts briefly before leaning down to press a kiss to the mole on the side of her left breast, causing Lydia's heart to beat a bit faster in her chest. _Okay_ , she tells herself, _It's Stiles. It's just Stiles_. Except he hasn't been 'just Stiles' in years, and her own words do absolutely nothing to distract her from the way it feels almost too good when he starts using his mouth on her breasts.

Lydia keeps her mouth clamped shut, not wanting to reveal too much of herself too quickly for fear that he'd back away. Stiles knows everything about who she is, but he doesn't have this yet, and she wants to give him the pieces slowly so that she doesn't scare him off.

She's half cataloguing the warmth of his tongue against her cold skin and half considering the idea that maybe they've been friends for too long to do this, because it feels so good, and now that she knows that he's capable of _this_ , Lydia isn't sure if she's going to be able to look at him the same way ever again.

So maybe she just has to make sure that the same happens to him.

With her hands already in his hair, it's easy to wrap the strands around her fingers and pull him up to look at her. He's got this innocent look on his face, as if he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but then Lydia kisses him, sitting up, and he sits up with her, lifting his arms compliantly when she starts to tug his shirt over his head. She can see the tension in his body as she looks him up and down, and it almost makes Lydia laugh because she's been checking him out for _years_ now— it's not like this is the first time. The happy trail that has been exposed to her is familiar and almost disturbingly coveted because it's one of the only things she really knows about his body.

"Don't look like that," Lydia whispers, admonishing him.

"Like what?" he asks, voice thick.

"Like you're expecting me to not want to touch you right now."

"Oh." He laughs shortly. "Sorry. I guess there's a part of me that's left over from high school that still expects to be a disappointment to you."

It's strange to think that the women he's been with all these years didn't make him feel like he was worth this moment. But, then, sometimes Lydia still talks to him and feels like she's too screwed up to help him with the process of fixing himself. Maybe years don't break down vulnerabilities when you finally get to a candlelit living room with the person you've wanted since you were a teenager.

"Didn't we say we weren't going to talk about the past?"

Her lips are quirked upwards at him, because he's still too tense, and it makes her want to fuck the insecurity right out of his body.

"Sorry," he says, not looking like he means it.

"Okay, well," Lydia says, bringing her laughing mouth to meet his, "regardless of what rules we do and do not break tonight, I expect you to make me come more than once, and seeing as this ends when the sun comes up, I think you're pretty pressed for time."

For a moment, he just looks at her, as if he's trying to decide where to touch her first. Then he moves in closer, causing Lydia to press back against the bottom of the couch, watching the man who is kneeling above her, calculating. He starts with kissing her cheek, then nuzzles into it, letting his nose glance over hers as he trails it all the way down, dropping a kiss on her chin as he goes to her neck. She expects him to kiss her there more, but instead she hears him breathe in shakily against her pulse point, where she'd sprayed perfume earlier that day, before sliding his nose to the valley between her bare breasts. He kisses that same mole before he continues to her belly button, finally ending up all the way between her legs, his stomach on the floor.

Lydia unceremoniously kicks off her leggings, keeping her purple panties on when she sees how wide Stiles' eyes get at the dark spot in the middle. She wants to laugh at the ruined look on his face— seriously, her underwear did that?— but somehow it's not really funny enough to laugh at. She feels nervous all of a sudden. Exposed.

"Stiles?"

"Just thinking," he replies, absently wetting his lower lip with his tongue. "There's so much I wanna do to you… I'm trying to… prioritize."

His words settle something in her stomach, and she has the strange, sudden urge to kiss the moles on his shoulder. He's really beautiful like this, Lydia thinks. The candles make his skin glow, and his lashes are fluttering as his fingers reach for her panties, pulling them gently aside so that he can see her. Lydia instinctively brings her knees closer to her chest, her feet planted firmly on the floor, and Stiles slides closer in response.

One finger ghosts in, tentative, and he closes his eyes for a moment when he feels her around him. Lydia clenches, but it's not _enough_ , and she starts to whine with frustration when he experimentally slides his finger in and out, too slow to really be doing anything.

"Another one," Lydia insists, but that only makes him remove the first one, smiling absently.

"Maybe," he says slowly.

She closes her eyes, then drops her head back against the couch, expecting him to comply. Instead, she gets his mouth wrapped around her clit, sucking harshly.

" _Fuck_ , Stiles!" Her eyes snap open at the sound of her own voice, loud and out of control, and she can feel her brows furrowed. "Warn a girl the next time, will you?"

"Nah," he says lightly, pulling her panties down her legs. Despite her indignance, Lydia moves her legs when he needs her to, aiding him in the endeavor. "That's too easy for you."

"Easy?" she says back. "Sorry, I forgot we were supposed to be getting PhDs in friends with benefits sex."

Stiles sighs heavily.

"Fine," he says, voice dry. "You want some warning? Lydia. I'm about to tongue fuck you. There's your warning."

"Thank you, that's all I was—" His mouth is on her again, and Lydia stops talking abruptly because she is _looking_ at him this time. Looking at the way he dives into her, his nose nudging against her clit as his tongue busies itself lower. The image of his eyes closed, his eyebrows furrowing together in the middle, and his head tilting to the side is almost too much for her. A wave of affection and arousal washes over Lydia simultaneously.

Stiles moves up to focus more purposefully on her clit, and his fingers come into play again, this time reaching deeper inside of her. He glances up at her through his lashes, almost as if he's checking for confirmation of how he's doing, and she thinks he probably likes what he sees because she can feel him laughing against her body before she flicks him in the head and he returns to his task.

She starts to focus on the area between her legs instead of the boy between them, closing her eyes and concentrating on the feeling he's creating. If her hips are a little merciless against his face, well, Lydia can't bring herself to care very much. In fact, she's not aware of much of anything until she hears the sound of Stiles moaning against her, tipping her over the edge. She clamps her thighs around his head, and he gently removes his left hand from where his fingers had been tangled up in hers, using it to pry her legs back open so that he can keep licking her, working her down.

"Whoa, okay," she says eventually, finally completely overstimulated. He pulls back with a look on his face that is lazy and goofy, making Lydia's heart clench with familiarity even as her hips buck slightly on their own accord. "Hi," she says, tilting her head down towards him and closing her eyes, breathing hard.

She feels his lips on her forehead, pressed there for too long, and she doesn't open her eyes as she lifts her chin, allowing him to kiss her. The kisses are curiously languid, not at all how she would imagine the kissing of a Stiles who is desperate to get off, and when she opens her eyes and looks at him, she realizes that it's because he already has.

"Whoops?" he says remorselessly.

Lydia claps a hand over her mouth to cover her smile.

"You just came from eating me out."

"There was also… uh… the floor. The floor was involved."

"Oh my god," she replies. "That just might be the highlight of my life."

"Fantastic." He grins. "Because that was definitely the highlight of mine."

Lydia swats him in the head.

"Stop smirking."

"Not a super nice way to treat someone who just went down on you. I mean. I'm just saying."

It's a fair point, especially considering how enthusiastically he'd done it.

"Maybe you should show me what the proper manners are," Lydia suggests. "Refractory period?"

Stiles cringes.

"Do you have to be so clinical?"

It hadn't even occurred to her to dress it up. It doesn't occur to her to fake much of anything with Stiles.

"Fine." She clears her throat. "Good sir, pray tell— how long is your refractory period?"

"What the—?"

"I thought you wanted less clinical?"

He drops his head onto her shoulder, laughing against her throat.

"Lydia."

"We're terrible at this, aren't we?"

"We?" Stiles repeats flatly, kissing her skin.

Lydia tilts his head up towards her.

"How long do you need until I can suck you off?"

He turns a little red, but takes it well.

"For you? Twenty minutes."

"Incredible," she says. "We can watch almost a full episode of Parks & Rec."

"Or," he responds, and then he ducks in to kiss her again, his hands sliding up from her waist to play with her breasts. "One night," he murmurs against her lips.

"No," Lydia says, standing up. "I'm not making out with you on a floor for twenty minutes."

"So the couch?" he suggests.

She nods, and he starts to settle onto the couch, but Lydia stops him.

"Take off your pants," she says. "And then turn around."

"Why?" he asks, even as he complies.

The curiosity in his eyes nearly makes her want to give him an answer, but instead she crawls onto the other couch cushion, facing Stiles, who is facing the wall adjacent to her television.

"Because I have priorities too."

His back is a constellation of freckles and moles, spread out across nearly untouched white skin. Aside from a few scars, Lydia feels like she is looking at the purest, most innocent part of him. The part unaffected by werewolves and nogitsunes and his own personal self-torture.

She touches a mole at the center of his back, her heart in her mouth. Her fingers trail lightly from this mole to one that is lower, and then she connects that mole to one that is closer to his shoulder. Stiles' back moves up and down laboriously, the muscles tense underneath her fingers. She travels down again, fingers brushing against the band of his navy boxer-briefs, before she goes back up. Stiles exhales slowly. Then inhales.

Normally, Lydia would feel bothered about being so reverential with anyone. But she's already been treated that way by him— he'd opened the door to this moment without even realizing it. Stiles organically, unthinkingly treats her as though he is constantly awed by her. It doesn't even occur to him to treat her differently. It doesn't occur to Stiles to hide how he wants to kiss her, or how he wants to touch her. He just does it. He fucking worships her. And Lydia has never wanted to worship anyone but Stiles Stilinski, so now that she has the chance, she's going to do it.

That's why she lowers her mouth to the skin on his back, dropping a small kiss against one of the moles she had just touched.

"Jesus, Lydia," he says quietly. She doesn't respond. Instead, she kisses another mole, then another, sliding her hand up to his shoulder and rubbing her thumb in circles around his skin.

"Have I ever told you how _pretty_ you are?" asks Lydia, mouth against his skin still. She lets him have a moment with the words before he answers, kissing mole after mole.

When he answers, his voice is hoarse.

"You think I'm pretty?"

"I do," responds Lydia, leaning forward on her hands to whisper it into his ear, tugging on his earlobe with her teeth as she leaves.

"Yeah, nope," he says, turning around and slamming Lydia back into the couch. He kisses her on the cheek before he goes for her lips, devouring them more insistently than he had before. Lydia kisses him back until he pulls away to speak, and then she kisses his jaw and his neck and basically anywhere she can reach. "I can't anymore. Need to touch you."

True to his words, his hand finds her center again and he pushes a finger into her, whinging against her skin when he feels her.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck. Bet you feel so good, Lydia. Wanna be inside you so bad."

She nods against his forehead, trying to ignore the throb between her legs, then continues to kiss him, trying to give him back that feeling of endless time that he'd given her. Stiles' feverish kisses stutter for a second, and when he starts to kiss her back again, his lips are slow and sure.

Lydia expects to get bored, kissing him, but his pupils are blown, his eyes so desperate he looks exposed, and it makes her want to soothe it all over, tell him that she's going to stay with him for as long as he needs her. He's her _best friend_. She's always going to be there. Always.

Except right now he's her best friend who is rapidly shoving two fingers in and out of her, concentrating hard on Lydia's body. It's the look of concentrated focus that tips Lydia over, really. His fingers are hitting the right spots inside of her, his thumb isn't faltering in its rhythm on her clit, and he looks so _focused_ , like the nights they used to spend trying to solve the problems of the world instead of solving themselves.

She cannot fathom the concept that Stiles is just as focused on getting her off as he was on saving Beacon Hills, and at the realization, her eyes roll up, a loud moan getting released from her lips as her head dips backward, chest arching towards him.

He sticks his fingers into his mouth and sucks on them fervently, a look of disbelief on his face as he tastes her for the second time that night.

"So," he says, humor in his voice. "How's work, Lydia?"

"Ha," she says. She'd hit her head against the armrest when she'd come, but Stiles doesn't notice, and she doesn't point it out because she's not stupid enough to think he wouldn't immediately stop all shenanigans and go to her fridge to grab a bag of peas for the non existent bruise on her head. "We've been studying the way nerves are reacting to our treatment to make sure there's no damage done."

He closes his eyes for a moment

"How're you doing that?"

"Top secret," Lydia replies. "But I can tell you that there's beakers involved. Chemicals. Bunsen burners."

"You're just saying science things," he responds, exasperated.

"It's working," Lydia points out, gesturing with her eyes and snide smile.

"Please don't ever tell anyone I got hard when you talked about bunsen burners."

"Maybe you have a teacher kink," suggests Lydia, sliding off of him and onto the floor. "Sit up," she adds.

"Maybe I have a Lydia Martin talking about science kink," Stiles theorizes, complying.

She smirks up at him from between his legs.

"Maybe it's _both_ ," she says before tugging impatiently on his boxer-briefs. He lifts his hips and she pulls them off, then refocuses herself on his body, leaving a bite on one of his hipbones before she finally settles herself on her knees in front of him.

Lydia thinks that she's going to be on her deathbed remembering the noise Stiles makes the first time she wraps her mouth around him.

If that's _not_ the last thing she thinks of, Lydia wonders what else in her life is going to take precedence. Stiles' tongue? The surprised, open-mouthed laugh that she's only seen him do three times since they became friends? She definitely wants to see it more, just as she wants to hear that noise more.

She pulls off for a moment, stroking him slowly, as she pretends to consider her next move. When she looks up, Stiles is staring at her intently, his mouth open, his chest splotched with red. Lydia's still looking at him when she leans forward and suckles at the head of him, letting her tongue flick over his slit.

"Oh, shit, Lydia," he groans into the air. "Feels so good. You feel so good." His brows are pinched together as he lets his eyes drift shut, then spring back open as though he doesn't want to stop looking at her. Lydia works her way down, then back, and deeper on the next pass, using her hand to touch what she doesn't want to take in her mouth. "This is… this is fucking unfair. You can't be good at _everything._ "

She pulls off, frowning.

"If you crack me up while I'm sucking your dick, you're not allowed to whine about any teeth that get involved."

"I know you're threatening me, but I don't even care," he says happily. She rolls her eyes and goes back to what she had been doing. He's only able to be silent for a few moments before he starts running his mouth again like the idiot that he is. "This is so much better than I ever imagined it. I think I just found religion."

She's not sure which one she wants to comment on first.

"What did you imagine, Stiles?" Lydia chooses to ask, because she has definitely imagined him with his hand plunged into his hair and gripping it too hard, just like he is now as he stares down at her.

"Used to… ah, _fuck_ , used to get off thinking about you sucking me off in the library. And you looked so fucking hot, red lips and those braids you used to wear, _fuck_. Thought about fucking your mouth in my bedroom, too, and the janitor's closet at school, and the locker room… and I thought about going down on you so much, Lydia. Can't believe I got to do it to you. Fuck."

She whimpers, high in her throat, and pulls back.

"Bedroom, Stiles," she says, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. But _god_ , does she need to come again. She doesn't know what he's doing to her, but she feels like she will never be fully satiated as long as he's sitting right in front of her. She wants more. She wants again.

It shouldn't feel so right to tug him through the darkened hallways of her apartment and pull him into her pitch-black bedroom. She can't see him, but she can feel him as she stops where she assumes her bed is. Stiles kisses the back of her neck as she feels around for the condoms that are in the second drawer on her nightside table, then turns around and pulls him onto the bed with her, not caring when his weight is a bit too heavy as he tries to get his bearings.

"Think you can put this on with no light?" she asks, finding his face in the darkness and running her hand over it until she finds his nose and presses a kiss against it. She stays close, and he leans his forehead against hers as he nods, sliding the condom on a moment later, then diving for her lips again.

"That's actually listed under special skills on my resume."

"Shut up, Stilinski," says Lydia, voice breathy.

"Mmph," he responds resentfully, and Lydia chuckles.

"Stiles," she whispers in the darkness.. "Fuck me."

She can't see him, but there's a long moment where he doesn't say anything, and she runs her foot gently up his leg, hoping to bring him closer to her despite the fact that she can't see him. There aren't any street lamps lighting the room, or any candles providing illumination, but she can hear his unsteady breaths in the darkness. She's so used to the sound of his voice, but it's causing goosebumps to erupt all over her flesh.

She thinks, half delusional, that he is _steady_. Stiles represents steadiness. The fact that they are doing this doesn't change that. Somehow, they were always going to end up here eventually.

Lydia wants to tell him that, but he cuts her off.

"I hate that I can't see your expression right now," he says, voice shaky.

She uses her words to comfort him because that is what they do.

"I know. Stiles, I just… I want you inside of me so badly. I'm right here."

"Me too," he whispers.

It takes some fumbling that would be too long with anyone else, but it's Stiles, so Lydia keeps her hand on the back of his neck, strokes it lightly, and waits. He pushes into her very slowly, exhaling loud, stuttering breaths. Lydia's eyes squeeze shut in the darkness as she hears him breathe, her own relieved sigh joining his in the silence of the room. _Thank god_ , she wants to say, but instead she hums into his ear, the sound urgent.

Stiles slides out, hesitates for a second, and then thrusts back in. As they create a rhythm together, he groans deep in his throat and lets out a string of swears.

"Oh my fucking god, Lydia, you're so fucking wet and hot and— god, Lydia, you feel fuckin' incredible. Always wanted you so bad, want to do everything to you, _fuck_."

Her hips are matching his as best she can, and it's not perfect, but she thinks that maybe this is how it was always supposed to be for the two of them— a little sweaty, a little nerve wracking, a little sloppy. She can feel Stiles stretching her, the hot slide of him making her dizzy with need. She wraps her head around the feeling of his warm breath against her neck as her body reacts to his words.

"Stiles, _please_ ," Lydia whimpers, rolling her own nipple between her fingers. "I'm so close."

"Me too," he pants, "Your mouth got me so close, Lyds."

She barely notices his hands moving until he's already scooped her up and flipped them over so that Lydia is hovering on top of Stiles, her body crouching over his. His hips begin slamming up into her, their skin slapping together, and the abrupt change in angle is so good that Lydia cries out. His mouth is kept busy by her breasts, his hands on her ass, and Lydia is suddenly working way too hard to keep herself quiet.

He comes a moment later, still sucking on her nipple, and Lydia wants to cry at the loss of him.

"Sorry," Stiles pants. "The noises, I couldn't… couldn't—"

"It's okay," she begins to say, but he slides down so that she's sitting on his face, and when his hand comes around to squeeze her ass gently, Lydia starts to slowly, carefully ride his tongue.

It only takes a few moments for her to start hanging onto the headboard, speeding up her movements over Stiles' face. She comes quickly after that, suddenly exhausted as she dismounts and drops onto the bed next to him.

"Not bad," she says, teasing him. She rolls herself onto his extended arm, tucking her body into his side.

"Uh, yeah, three orgasms. I'm clearly off my game."

"Was it three?" Lydia asks, trying to recall. "I don't know if I remember the first one. I feel like it wasn't very earth-shattering."

"Are you saying that the other ones were?" he challenges.

Lydia freezes.

"Did you just turn my glass-half-empty into a glass-half-full?"

She can't see in the darkness, she thinks he's probably smiling. She hopes he is, at least.

"I think I _did_."

"Impressive," Lydia admits.

"Do I get a high-five?" asks Stiles hopefully. She slaps her palm against his. "And one more for three orgasms? Because, I mean, you could have done worse."

"I don't know," Lydia says, yawning. "My vibrator packs a pretty solid punch."

He sits up very abruptly.

"You have a vibrator?"

"What, am I twelve? Of course I have a vibrator."

"Does it have a name?"

"Stiles junior," Lydia says drily.

" _Really_?"

"Wha— no, Stiles, not really."

"Fuck," he complains, lying back down. "I'm hungry."

"There's still some cold pizza in the fridge from our Indiana Jones marathon two nights ago."

"You want me to bring you back a slice?"

She beams.

"Bring back 1980's Harrison Ford and we've got ourselves a real party."

"I think that's my dream threesome," Stiles decides as he pushes back the covers. She hears his hands hitting the walls repeatedly as he searches for the door, and Lydia idly thinks that she probably shouldn't leave Stiles to fend his way through her dark apartment, but he'd definitely been there enough to know his way around. She's just settled back against the pillows, unable to keep the smile off of her face, when Stiles' head pops around the corner. "You snuggled."

"What?"

"You snuggled into me."

"Of course I didn't, Stiles."

"I felt it," he says, sounding delighted. "You totally did."

"Okay, so I had a momentary lapse in judgement."

"It's okay. I know I'm snuggle-able."

"You're the _least_ snuggly person I've ever met. You hiss at children."

"Only the ones who steal my candy," he reasons. Lydia throws her pillow at him.

"Get me my pizza, asshole."

He's about to leave when she calls out his name again.

"What now?" he asks, exasperated as he stands in the doorframe, waiting. "Seriously, what? What is more important than cold pizza?"

"You're still my best friend," says Lydia contently. "I may have broken the snuggle rule, but I'd never break that one, Stiles."

He doesn't move for a moment, and then he's suddenly between the sheets with Lydia, hands on her cheeks, mouth moving over hers.

"Mine too." His voice is raspy. "But also…" Something seems to dawn on him, and he ducks out of the room. Three minutes later, he returns by light of iPhone flashlight, a plate stacked with pizza, and the piece of paper on which they had written their list. "The rules," says Stiles flatly. "They're not working for me anymore."

Lydia sits up, grabbing a slice from the plate.

"Why not?"

Stiles rips it in half, staring at her unapologetically.

"Because," he says plainly. "I think it's time to talk feelings."


End file.
